


The Bait

by semper_eadem



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brothers, Cousins, Gen, Jewelry, POV Female Character, Tea, Unrequited Love, Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semper_eadem/pseuds/semper_eadem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sitting together for tea, Curufin reveals that he actually cares and Galadriel realises that she does not know.<br/>A story from the Time of Trees.</p>
<p>Beta-read version updated!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bait

**Author's Note:**

> One of my really first attempts to write an un-Feanor-like Curufin. Obstinate elf that he is, it did not quite come out the way I had imagined him in my head. The young Galadriel, however, was surprisingly easily to write. I do enjoy her more than her mature and grave counterpart from Lord of the Rings.  
> Only Celegorm comes out a little worse for wear... Poor thing.
> 
> Again, warning for Quenya-Names.
> 
> Update:   
> Now beta-read!  
> As I'm quite unsure of my work and my command of the English language, I asked the lovely Dawn to take a look at this story. That had been many moons ago and Dawn probably believes I have fallen off the edge of the world. (Rather held hostage in the real world... Well...)   
> Thank you again for your beta-reading and the many tips you gave me.

“Well, that certainly is unusual,” Artanis said, more to herself than for the benefit of the dark figure sitting across from her.

“That we are sitting together for tea, or that we have not yet thrown the dishes at each other?” came the wry answer from her guest nontheless.

Curufinwë Atarinkë's face glowered. Pale grey eyes like chips of ice, skin as white as the stones of Tirion, he had all the appearance of his father and thus all his beauty, but like the snow-tipped peaks of Taniquetil, there was a coldness surrounding him that Fëanáro did not possess. Trust her uncle to withhold his fire even from his most beloved son. 

Artanis' lips twitched in annoyance but, being nontheless a gracious host, she poured her cousin a cup of tea. Jasmin, with a hint of ginger. Curufinwë would despise it.

“What brings you to me, cousin?” she said, watching him forgo the tea and go straight for the pastry. Apple, with raisins and a hint of cinnamon. Figures. 

Curufinwë worked his way through a sizeable slice before answering, and Artanis had time to reflect on the stark contrast he brought to the parlour. With the high ceilings and wide windows, her rooms were airy and light, and so refreshing from the usual oppressive décor of Noldorin houses. 

Many a good time she had spend here in the company of her brothers and cousins. Findárato would sprawl on the settee with a book, while Turukáno monopolise the coffee table for his diagrams and charts. Maitimo would amble along I front of the floor-length windows, entertaining everyone who would fall for his light-hearted grace, and most of the time it would be Findekáno. The strum of Makalaurë's harp. Tyelkormo's careless laugh, when she complained about how Huan was shedding all over her carpet. All of them had somehow found a place in Artanis' light-filled parlour and made it partly their own.

Curufinwë, however, among the crème coloured pillows and the rattan furniture with all the knick-knacks strewn about, looked like a crow in a canary's cage. And for all the riches in Valinor, Artanis could not remember the last time she had seen him sitting stiffly in the overstuffed chair, inspecting the floral design on his plate with a critical eye. Still chewing.

“I have come,” he finally said, the side of his fork scraping over the porcelain to gather the last crumbs, “on behalf of the family.”

Artanis did not bother to suppress a snort. “It's about the hair business again, is it not. I already denied your father, Curufinwë, so what makes you think you would get a different answer?”

“Oh, don't flatter yourself,” he said, his mood changing from indifference to irritation with the ease of turning a page in a book. The empty plate was set down on the small table a little too firmly, making the porcelain ring. “If I had wanted your hair, I would have Findárato raid your assortment of brushes and evaded the trouble of asking you in the first place.”

Bristling at the notion and his nonchalant tone, Artanis shot her cousin a look. “As if my brother would do anything at your bidding.”

“He will, if I ask him nicely.” He shot her a thin smile, reached for his cup and smelled the aroma tentatively. To judge from his grimace, she had been right about his preferences in tea. It was only a small triumph.

“You would not dare,” she told him in a grave voice. 

Curufinwë simply arched an eyebrow at her, while steering sugary lumps in the shapes of flowers into his tea. 

Yes, he would, Artanis decided. And Findárato would probably do it, like he always stepped into the breach where their dour cousin was concerned. At first she had believed it due to mutual interest. Often she would find them in one of the great ateliers of the palace, working in silence on their respective projects in marble and sand stones. Sometimes Turukáno would be there too, and all three would put their heads together over large scrolls of parchment and long columns of equations. 

Their friendship, if one would make the trouble to identify it as such, was a quiet one. Not bustling with affection and the constant need to reassure them of the other's continuing existence, like with Maitimo and Findekáno. They could go days without looking at each other, until Artanis would enter her brother's rooms only to find Curufinwë lounging on the bed, listening to Findárato's latest composition on the harp even she had not yet heard. 

Staring at the amber liquid in her own cup, she decided to let this rest for now. “If it is not about the hair, then what is it?”

He sat the spoon down and straightened his already stiff posture. “I am here to ask you to cease your designs on my brother,” he said, as grave and serious as if he announced words of doom. “And this,” he added, staring into his teacup with an air of disapproval, “is a very weak drink.”

“It's tea,” Artanis answered automatically.

“My sentiments exactly.”

A moment of silence, and she realised that her vexing cousin had no inclination to elaborate on a matter that was clear enough for him, and thus, in his mind, should be for anyone else. By now, however, she was decidedly bemused. “Your brother?”

“Yes.”

“You have six of them,” she probed. 

“I'm sadly aware of that.” His grey eyes blazed with annoyance, and something one could probably identify as fondness. “But I can safely claim that you do not work your womanly wiles on all of them.” His eyebrows drew together. “At least I hope not.”

Artanis daintily rubbed one temple, feeling the beginning of a headache coming on. There was a reason Curufinwë preferred the solitude of his forge to the feasts and gatherings his peers were so fond of. He had the social graces of a rabid wolf in a chicken coop, and the poor soul knew it. Nontheless, this did not hinder him from directing his prickly temper toward anyone convenient. 

Once she had asked Findárato what he saw in him. Her brother had stared at her, shrugged, and simply said, “He does not care easily.” Artanis could still remember his smile, with just a little too much tooth, as he had added, “And I am exceedingly fond of him.” Which, of course, explained nothing.

Pursing her lips, she dared a shot into the dark and said, “I hardly work my 'womanly wiles' on Tyelkormo.” 

“The besotted look he gets, whenever he hears your name, tells otherwise.” 

Of course, her aim was true and Artanis could not help but laugh. “Turko is a sweet innocent child. We flirt all the time.”

“That sweet innocent child is falling in love with you,” he insisted, voice as hard as granite. 

Waving her hand carelessly, she let herself fall against the back of her chair. Pillows embroidered with gold thread cushioned her descent perfectly. “He is in and out of love almost daily. This is no different.” She looked back at his unmoving face, as stern as though carved out of snow-white marble. With more snide, than was probably necessary, she added. “and I have not seen you call on his other love interests before.”

At her mockery, his grey eyes burning with anger and calculation. “Then you do not know your cousin as well as you would like to believe,” he said acerbically, not even showing any satisfaction at the impact his words had on her. And impact they had.

Artanis felt her lips curl over her teeth as she straightened herself slowly in her seat. This was the one thing she took real pride in. Not having the skill nor the patience for arts and crafts like her kinsfolk, reading people and their hearts was a power she had worked hard to hone and expand over years. Maybe she flattered herself to touch the power and perception of the Valar themselves a little to much. But then, not many beings could hide from her keen mind and clear sight. 

Her relationship with Curufinwë was civil at best. She had never understood his relationship to her brother nor the almost mindless adoration Tyelkormo had for him. A simple carbon copy of his father did not deserve her attention, nor did a heart that could barely suffer the presence of his family without a show of wilful indifference. Or so she told herself. Still, his words rankled, even more so because they came from him. 

“Why the sudden interest, Atarinkë,” she asked in a sweet tone, relishing the slight twitch of the corners of his mouth at the sound of his hated mother-name. She knew little of his heart, but she knew enough about his pride. “You barely made it through the second course of Makalaurë's wedding feast before you slipped away like a thief. What right do you have to intervene in your brother's life?”

Curufinwë made to speak then and, beginning to gesture, suddenly realised he still had the delicate teacup in his hand. With a snarl of revulsion, he slammed the cup back on the saucer. She almost expected it to break, but the porcelain stayed miraculous in one piece. 

“In what way I treat my brothers,” he brought out between clenched teeth, “is of no concern to you. Tyelkormo has shown himself more often than not as a careless imbecile. But,” he leaned wide enough forward to almost upset a vase of lilacs, “he is my careless imbecile and I will not see him harmed in any way.”

Now, it was on Artanis to arch an eyebrow. Curufinwë, who tolerated his fair brother with half-concealed impatience, was actually laying claim to him. True, he let himself get regularly pulled into schemes of Turko's design but was nothing more than a shadow of his golden and strong brother, glowering and sneering from the background, as a carefree Tyelkormo would make him go along on hunts and picnics. And yet, here Curufinwë was, in her parlour, where he had never set a foot before. Suffering her attitude and choice of tea. 

No, she definitely did not know his relationship with his brother nor his heart, and suddenly, the voice of Findárato was in her mind, “He does not care easily.” 

“You really do mean it,” she said, earning another glower from her cousin.

“There are more preferable pastimes than enduring your scorn, believe me.”

“Well then,” she sighed, “what makes you think this infatuation is different than any other?”

Curufinwë tilted his head slightly backwards in what should probably be contemplation, but only managed impudence. “You are willing to listen?”

“I have brothers of my own, as you are well aware.” The last part earned her another sharply arched eyebrow, but she ignored it. “I am at least willing to hear your concern.”

“Very well, then,” Curufinwë said, folding his hands in his lap. He opened his mouth with an audible intake of air, and closed it again. His eyes flickered past her and stared with unwavering concentration at the curtains, fluttering softly in the wind from the open window. 

Artanis waited a moment, then another, silently wondering if she was witnessing a rare moment of nerves for her cousin. She was about to open her own mouth to give some encouragement, but he blurted out the one thing, in retrospect, she could have done without knowing.

“He asked me to forge your engagement rings.”

From somewhere came the realisation, that she was probably gaping like a fish. Curufinwë had been wrong on one detail, she thought dazedly. Arrogant, free-spirited Tyelkormo, containing enough vanity to get over a jilt in mere hours, was indeed in love with her. Enough in love to actually think about marriage. The sudden realisation was sinking like a stone in her stomach. When had she missed his intentions between crooked smiles and wicked teases?

“What?” she croaked. Realizing how silly she must look, she forced her mouth closed.

“I told him,” Curufinwë undauntedly continued, finding a steady flow now that the worst was out, “that I am swamped with commissions and that I need to contact Carnistir for the right material first. It would take a few days to complete them and that he should be patient until then.” With confidence he added, “I believe this will give us enough time to find a solution to this.”

Artanis eyed him with slowly returning wit. A few days, indeed. “You already finished them, haven't you?”

Wordlessly, he pulled a small velvet bag from his belt and handed it to her. Loosening the drawstring, she let the content fall into her palm. White gold, she noticed, a fire topaz in the middle with diamonds clustered at the sides. They were beautiful, masterpieces, no matter that Curufinwë had probably thrown them together in his spare time. 

“It is so like you, cousin,” she said, picking up the smaller of the pair. There was no need to slip it on; it would fit perfectly on her right forefinger. “Forging rings you work so hard to see never being worn.” Watching the light of Laurelin glitter on the smooth metal and bright stones, Artanis was almost saddened by the thought. 

“It was there,” he said, shrugging, “and I had some time on my hands.”

Artanis chuckled softly, rolling the band between her fingertips. “You are willing to tear us apart and that romance of ours, aren't you,” she teased lightly, not able to resist trying to get a rise out of her collected cousin. “Would we not make a handsome couple? Maybe Turko and I should give it a try after all.”

Angular cheeks flushed and mouth set in a frown, Curufinwë was not amused. Artanis knew better than to expect a wild outburst like from most of his brothers. His emotions always manifested in his words and not in the volume of them. 

“I know my brother,” he said, and his voice cut through her playfulness like a knife, “and, admittedly, to some extent know you. You both are highly arrogant and foolish creatures, but you are not meant for each other.” 

“Indeed, we are not,” Artanis said, sobered and already regretting her words to someone who had no qualms to voice his opinion. If the roles would have been reversed, she would not have either, though. It was strange to realise that they had more in common than their brothers' affection.

“You cannot make my brother happy,” he continued, “and he, certainly, cannot make you happy.”

“You are quite sure of that.”

Curufinwë caught her eyes with his own, and suddenly the air in her wide and cool rooms became stifling. Fire was not in his spirit, but it burned with great intensity, and Artanis had to put her own will against it so as not to be smothered. A heartbeat, and he pulled back, making her almost dizzy with the sudden release. 

“Your chosen must possess more than physical strength,” he said, with the nonchalance of someone, who had just proven a point. “Integrity, intelligence and a spirit that rivals your own. As much as I love my brother, Tyelkormo posesses none of those things.”

Bemused by his words, Artanis probed the solid presence that was her cousin. The icy inferno was nothing more than an unyielding surface now, like the cool marble floor in the throne room. But where time and use had polished the stone to a smooth finish, she could feel the jagged edges and spikes of his personality sprouting almost sullenly from it. 

If Curufinwë felt her scrutiny, he did not show it, but regarded her with an almost bored expression as she gathered her thoughts. He was right, of course. The thought made her almost snarl in frustration. She did enjoy the easy entertainment Tyelkormo would provide whenever he set foot in her parlour. Vain and proud like no other, though truly affectionate to anyone who held his heart, he was not known for his deeper thoughts. And he was not the one she wanted at her side for the duration of her immortal life. 

“What do you want me to do?” she said, for she may be foolish and arrogant, as Curufinwë had pointed out with the ease a starling would pick cherries, but she was not cruel. 

“Discourage him,” he bluntly said, “you must have some expertise in this area.”

“And that is exactly why you should leave the talking to me, dear cousin,” she replayed wryly, and he did not protest. “Tyelkormo will come by tomorrow to take me out riding. I will talk to him then. You have my word.”

“Very well.” Curufinwë nodded with an air of accomplishment and nothing more. It was probably to much to ask for a word of thankfulness from him, and Artanis did not expect it.

Her eyes wandered back to the rings, ringing against each other merrily in her hand. They still felt cool against her skin, even after being held for so long. With a silent sigh, she let them slide back into the soft cloth and held it out for her cousin to take back.

“No, keep them,” he said dismissively, waving her offering hand away. “For Tyelkormo I never would have chosen white gold. Too pale.” 

Staring at him incredulously, she nontheless curled her fingers around the little bag. As she felt the bands through the lush velvet, she suddenly understood. While one ring had been the perfect size for her, the other had been too wide for even Tyelkormo's large hands. It was not customised but was of the sort the rings vendors would sell on the marketplace in front of the palace. 

What audacity, to catch her with such ease, only to gift her with the bait in the end. A breathless laugh escaped her. 

“You are welcome,” Artanis simply said, wide-eyed. For the first time in many years, she felt deeply touched. His heart was really unknown to her, after all. A stranger among her cousins, who she believed to know inside and out. The thought, for once, did not offend her or make her resent him for it. Just thoughtful, and a little disappointed in herself. 

“Just promise me one thing,” he said, glower back in place and fingers steepled under his chin. “Come for the fitting to me, and not to one of these charlatans Grandfather insists on employing in his forges.” He breathed out through his nose noisily. “Inept, all of them.”

Still laughing, Artanis rang for the maid to set on a new pot of tea. The bitter and black one her brother seemed to favour ever since he took on sculpturing. Though she drank not a drop, the pot was emptied that afternoon.

 

~*****~

 

It had not been as easy as capturing his interest in the first place, but the damage had been done, and done well. Tyelkormo would not be persuaded again to mistake their light-hearted bander as anything but affection among family.

To judge by the force with which he had almost unhinged the door on his way out, his presence in her parlour would be missing for some time to come. And even that might be too soon, Artanis mused, as she watched her maid pick up what had been part of her tea porcelain. 

She wondered what the outcome would have been without the warning, for even Artanis doubted that her rejection would have been gentle. Tyelkormo was dear to her, though not in the way he had expected, and she was secretly grateful for his brother's painfully frank interference. 

It would blow over soon, she knew, like a spring storm, soon forgotten, and Turko would be back in her parlour as noisy and boisterous as before, if not as trusting.

Turning her back to the casualties of the day, Artanis stepped up to one of the floor-length windows, Tyelkormo would surely pass by on his way back to his father's halls. 

She was not surprised to see Curufinwë, obviously already waiting to pick up the pieces of their arrangement, for lounging on a small wall, back against a marble flowerpot planted with yellow roses and a book in his hands, was her cousin. Her cousin, who never lounged anywhere without a purpose or for his own pleasure, least of all where people with the opportunity and the lack of good sense could approach him. Artanis wondered briefly if Huan's bulk sitting next to him was intended to discourage anyone from coming within ten feet of him. Seeing the massive head lying on one of his feet with an air of familiarity, she dismissed the thought and at the same time winced in sympathy. The foot must be numb by now.

It was also the first time, Artanis realized, that she had noticed Tyelkormo's considered and uncharacteristic gesture. She and her poor carpets had not seen the hairy lump for a few weeks. Watching now the almost idyllic if staged scene outside her window, she could hazard a guess as to who had to mind the hound in his master's absence. 

Was it possible, she mused not for the first time, that she had not known him so well after all? All her insight, her strength and her keen sense of observation had failed on not only one but both brothers. Her own silly cousins, whom she had known since her birth. Biting her lip in anger, for once directed at herself, Artanis could no longer enjoy the pleasure her skills gave her. She was suddenly not rivalling the Valar any more than a sparrow could an eagle. 

Outside, Huan lifted his head from Curufinwë's poor foot, his tail thumping furiously against the ground. A few seconds later Tyelkormo stepped up to his brother, leaning down to scratch behind the great hound's ear. Curufinwë was not so enthusiastic in his greeting and even took his time to finish the paragraph before closing his book. It was so like her cousin that it made her almost snort. But then, Curufinwë put the book aside and reached up to cup his brother's face in his hands, thumbs moving gently over his brother's cheeks. 

As she turned away from the gentle scene, her eyes were burning.

That night, she sat long at her dressing table, fondling the small drawstring bag. Her mind was full of the things she had believed she had known and the truths she had learned instead. What more was there that Artanis Nerwen was still ignorant about?

Finally releasing the rings from their velvet confinement, she set them in her jewellery box and laughed at how well they fitted among her gold and silver ornaments. 

Such a beautiful bait. 

 

~


End file.
